Doris’ hands closed tightly.
“He knew best,” she said, with all a woman’s loving loyalty. “I—I am satisfied. He knew best,” and the tears came at last and rolled down the pale cheeks.
Spenser Churchill heaved a sigh.
“Nobly said, my dear young lady! Yes, doubtless he knew best. Rest assured that he kept the secret from you for good reasons. Yes, he knew best! Poor Jeffrey, poor Jeffrey!” He wiped his eyes. “And now shall I go—some other time——”
“No, no,” said Doris. “Tell me everything, please; I do not know what to do—I am so alone——”
“Yes, yes,” he said. “About your future; forgive me if I mention such a subject; but I presume you will continue your profession——”
A shudder ran through Doris’ frame at the thought of again facing the crowded theatre.
“No, no!” she said, almost fiercely. “I shall never act again!”
As she answered, the scene of the first night of “Romeo and Juliet” rose before her, and she thrilled with the recollection of the inspiration which had come to her from her love for Cecil Neville. That inspiration had vanished forever now, and to act with a broken heart would, she knew, be impossible to her.
“I shall never go on the stage again,” she responded firmly.